


Pretend

by Raptor_Redemption



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Pegging, Post-Game(s), Strap-Ons, Top Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28554366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptor_Redemption/pseuds/Raptor_Redemption
Summary: It's an important day for the political leaders of Almyra, and Ingrid ensures that Claude takes it seriously with a "punishment" awaiting him should he fail to meet her expectations.Claude and Ingrid may frequently make a game of pretending, a silly habit they picked up during their academy years, but in their bedroom there is no such thing. Here, Ingrid corners Claude when he wants to run, reminds him of his duties and his place and that she is his fuckingwife, and, in half-lidded bliss, Claude enjoys every moment of it.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lazulila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulila/gifts).



> Writing this request was the first time I really paid much attention to Claugrid, but I'm happy I did! This was a joy to write, and I'm so glad to have had the opportunity. We love a handsome, intelligent, messy af king and his wife who won't take shit.
> 
> If you want to request some fic of your own, head over to my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/raptor_redeem)!

Running Almyra is messy, which isn’t exactly surprising given that its king is the messiest of all. His earnestness and well meaning attitude earn him plenty of ins with his subjects and royal retinue alike, but his leadership style is akin to the way he leaves his bed unmade each morning.

It drives Ingrid crazy.

At the start of every day, she rises before him to ride in the woods. The cool morning calms her, refreshes her, prepares her for the day. By the time she returns, bathed and dressed for her activities in the royal courts, Claude is usually nowhere to be found. In his wake, he leaves chaos—down pillows askew, sheets crooked and untucked from the mattress, fur comforters crumpled in one corner at the foot of the bed with his nightclothes strewn across the room.

Claude thinks that he’s leaving the tidying to the servants who bustle throughout the castle each morning and evening, but the truth of the matter is that Ingrid would never let even her closest handmaiden see her and her husband’s marriage bed in such a state, with underclothes decorating the room as if it’s Sylvain’s dorm room back at the monastery.

No, Ingrid cleans _this_ herself.

Or rather, she _would_ clean herself if today was not not an incredibly important day.

Representatives from Fódlan are visiting, perhaps even nobility that Ingrid was raised amongst and who Claude might remember from their time at the Officers Academy. While reunions may be sweet, the negotiations are not likely to be—Claude and his chief advisors have been preparing for today’s council meeting for as long as Ingrid can remember. Nearly a year of carefully written letters and proposals have led to this moment.

If only all of Fódlan’s and Almyra’s government could find it within themselves to agree as amicably as Claude and Dimitri do.

In her hurry to attend the parade outside the palace gates and greet the Fódlan officials upon their arrival, Ingrid leaves her room in its current state and hisses an annoyed breath through her teeth. Breezing through the halls, her skirts bustling around her calves, she pins up her braids and swipes stray wisps of hair behind her ears.

She sees Claude at the open gates, waiting atop his horse and laughing with the guards. Aside from donning his cloak and a brooch crafted from precious metals and gems, he has clearly made no effort to appear polished for Fódlan’s best. His curly hair is hardly brushed, his beard laced with stubble.

“You remember our agreement, _Your Majesty_?” Ingrid asks the king as she approaches with a shallow bow. Her smile to the crowd surrounding them is fond, but her eyes cut daggers into her husband. 

“Ingrid!” His smile is huge when he dismounts to gather Ingrid into a hug. Much to her dismay, he spins her once. “Good morning, you.”

“Good _morning_. Well?”

Claude waves dismissively, but his discrete answer at least tells Ingrid what she needs to know. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. No jokes during the council today, it’s not _proper_ for the king to do such a thing, save it for after business is finished. Anything else?”

Ingrid lifts one eyebrow, unamused. “Your punishment?”

“Oooh, right. My _punishment._ ” Claude’s smile oozes debauched mischief, just enough to have Ingrid’s stomach fluttering with want. “How could I forget?”

Horns sound from the parapets, the guards’ signal that Fódlan’s traveling party has been spotted in the distance, and Claude mounts his horse in an easy motion. “You got it, m’lady.” 

Ingrid scoffs, but her eyeroll goes unnoticed. They have work to do.

* * *

Frankly, it’s a miracle that Dimitri and Claude maintain their professionalism for as long as they do. Ingrid is on the brink of thinking that she’s incredibly impressed with them, but she should have known that _Sylvain_ would be the one to tempt them all toward disaster. Perhaps bored with his lack of necessary contributions, Margrave Gautier cracks a joke entirely unfitting for a royal council.

There has never been such a look of shared disdain between two people as the one between the Queen of Almyra and Duke Fraldarius in that moment.

Once the scarce laughter—including Claude’s—has died out into little sighs and clearing of throats, the chambers exude an incredible emptiness so thick that Ingrid could slice through it with a spear. It’s not the silence that needs the spear, however, but _Claude_. Oh, yes. She grins wickedly at him and ensures that he catches the mad twinkle in her eye.

Yes, Claude von Riegan is going to be speared tonight.

* * *

“It wasn’t that bad,” Claude protests later.

“Oh, but it was, and you know it, too.”

Claude shakes his head as he pulls the layers of expensive, brocaded garb over his head and tosses them across one of the plush lounges they use for reading. It seems to remind him of something, and Ingrid watches the cogs turn in his head. “Oh. I knew something was off. Our room isn’t clean…Huh. Are any of the servants ill? We should send them medicine and a healer, if so—“

“You’re changing the subject,” Ingrid says. Perhaps her little secret won’t remain one for long, but there are more important things at hand. She kneels beside the trunk at the foot of their bed and slips a thin key inside until the mechanism clicks. She produces a small box from beneath a pile of folded clothes and unlatches it. The contents that lie within are assembled quickly in Ingrid’s practiced hands. “If you knew what was best for you, you’d already be on the bed preparing yourself.”

“I just—“

Ingrid purses her lips and throws her hands over her head. “Now, of all times, is when you’re worried about the cleanliness of your quarters?” She shakes her head and undresses herself before returning her hands to their own tasks. “I swear, Claude, you _have_ to be the most avoidant man I’ve ever known.” Deft fingers slide across buckles and leather straps, the movements coming easily from memory. “And here I thought that all of the times you’ve pretended to be prim and proper for me would serve you well in that council room today.”

Claude opens his mouth just as Ingrid closes the trunk and rises to her feet.

“No,” she says. “I don’t want to hear any excuses from you.”

Thankfully, her newly donned strap-on seems to do the majority of the silencing for her. The harness rests snugly against her thighs and around the curvature of her ass, the weight of the bouncing, stitched leather dildo something always so novel for the first few moments she maneuvers with it. 

Claude is entirely still save for the occasional flutter of thick, dark eyelashes against his cheeks.

“Didn’t I say you should be preparing yourself? This is _your_ punishment. I shouldn’t be expected to do all the work,” says Ingrid.

He obeys at last, procuring a vial from a drawer beside their bed and kneeling on all fours. 

Ingrid watches the King of Almyra tug at his asscheek with one hand, showing a glimpse of his hole before sliding oil slicked fingers along its rim, and it’s only a few moments more before Claude is fucking into himself with two fingers and holding himself open with his other hand. His head pushes into one of their pillows, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth the same way that a bead of precum is already mounting the tip of the hard, flushed cock hanging neglected between his legs.

“You know,” he breathes, half-muffled by the pillow, “‘M not sure how you can call this a punishment when it feels so good.”

Words like that are far from what Ingrid wants to be hearing from Claude, so she silences him the best way she knows how. Her hands may look delicate, but her grasp is strong and sure when she digs short nails into his hips and pulls him back hard against her cock. Like that, she grinds against him and allows him to rest his hands.

With the use of his elbows, Claude props himself up and glances back at Ingrid with hungry adoration. “You want me to say ‘sorry?’”

“No,” Ingrid says as she grabs a hold of her strap-on and guides it to push against Claude’s asshole. “That wouldn’t be like you.”

Claude hums, “You’re right,” and his breath hitches when Ingrid pushes forward and begins sliding each inch of her dick inside him. “G-gotta be—”

She thrusts.

“—myself! Right?”

Again.

“Yes, Claude. For better or for worse.”

Claude and Ingrid may frequently make a game of pretending, a silly habit they picked up during their academy years, but in their bedroom there is no such thing. Here, Ingrid corners Claude when he wants to run, reminds him of his duties and his place and that she is his fucking _wife_ , and, in half-lidded bliss, Claude enjoys every moment of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to come hang out with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/raptor_redeem) to chat more FE3H! If you found me from this fic, feel free to let me know. c: 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
